


An Amazing Performance

by Moogs



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M, PROJECT skins, Project Jhin, Project Vayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 00:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12805854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moogs/pseuds/Moogs
Summary: our dance begins.





	An Amazing Performance

    This performance is his favourite. It’s his absolute fantasy. Of course, the others — paltry little Catnipp and their salivating sycophancy, for instance — are quite pleasurable in sparing, truncated moments. And those moments are dear. But nothing quite compares to the relative delight of whetting the relentless rapid-fire of Jhin's true, malignant personality over the Explode’s traumatized, broken body? Why, nothing. He was the furious spark that would light a beacon of frenzy to all those whom followed behind him, all inspired and aching to have their names as glorious as his own. 

  
     "You’re afraid, you won’t be saved," he mulls, not an ounce of pity in him. This time, he’s not playing the friendly stranger. He’s not playing the buyer, or the companion, or the lecturer, or the foundation of another’s moral compass. Not now. This time, the cybernetic disputant is the heinous source of abuse; the cornerstone of her sadism; the very nucleus of her bleak, malicious panorama of life. He’s felt her flesh bruise beneath him when he scissors pearly pigment between thumb and forefinger, and chiselled, torqued and plied away the colouring into something purpled, grotesque and revolting. "Just like you couldn't save your squad ; you just had to go on by yourself, right?" He opens his arms, candid and rather revelatory about his honesty. "You're **disgusting**. Not worth anything.. _yet._ " He hacks from the depths of his sordid throat, he never had any sense of what was right and what was wrong. His mind akin to the many beasts that clamber o'er the stretches that no man would ever venture, their own ideologies ever so grey, greyer than ash, and caring little for the effects of their existence.

  
                                                                      **_Yes_** …  
                                                                          Only that can save her now.  
                                                                          Save her soul, that is.

 

     "Kitten, you’ll burn," He opines wildly, like some religious zealot. "Oh, **_you’ll burn_**!" His insidious heckle is pronged by sick laughter; a deranged, snorting laugh of a man so drowned within his own maddening purgatory that any soul he once sheltered inside himself is now skinned far, far away; stripped and hung in neither Heaven nor Hell. And while she struggles, it’s a vain effort as competent in garnering mercy from him as words through stitched lips are lucid and comprehensible. She reaches up to entreat his heart, to plead one final time, but he spears this darling’s right breast with an old, iron poker. There’s a torrent of blood, and he watches as her head thrusts backward; strangely, her chest juts upward, and soaks the mind-tormentingly atrocious skewer of agony which overdoses her typically high threshold of pain, and reduces her into the screaming, babbling infant she once used to be. It protrudes clean through her body, sleek and metal; he does excellently to evade vital targets. One might almost suggest he’s a professional at impaling raw meat.

 

  
                                                                      He is in their experience, at least.  
                                                                      She’s now fettered to the ground, staked there like some prized calf.

 

     He plunges against the bone shell of her anatomy, disjointing it. He’s not strong enough to bend and deform it in a single blow, however; he’s a lanky, emaciated fellow — so he plummets his leather-bound foot down again, and again, and again. He’s encountered by a wailing, maniacal sound from his victim as her pretty, long leg becomes grotesquely angular after each pounding, pounding stamp of his foot. Repulsive, intransigent slurs of the physically handicapped are sown from his lips in relation to what he’s making her — “They’ll laugh at you, oh they’ll laugh! I’ll give ‘em a free show!”. A bloody squelch fills the room when the skin becomes ruptured by a slight protrusion of broken bone. He’s kicked the seam of her inner knee asunder; it’s still swinging, limp and insensate, attached only by the stringy, drooling shafts of stubborn ligaments. He relents when sweat, and the accompanying ardour of his heart’s pulse, force him into a chaos-pregnant retirement. " _Ah_ , ah, ah. I won't _kill you_. Dying is easy, Lieutenant. You're gonna learn about pain. You're gonna learn about loss. You are going to _remember_ me .. and just wait till they see what I left for ** _THEM_**."  Disappointment is laced within her breaths, she presumed that he—of all people—was cognizant of ‘evil’ are subjective, ergo, she cycles through a brief period of struggle, sifting lithe extremities through the interstices of each other and exhaling sharply, she didn't give up easily even when beaten  & broken. Her glared magnetic hues flushed with hatred, a never ending hatred. 

 

                                                                       _Hate me_. Hate me. Because, ** _darling_**. It's more fun that way. 


End file.
